


12 Days of Ficmas 2016: The Yard's Annual Christmas Party

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Party, Greg Lestrade Gets Exactly What He Deserves, Hand Jobs, M/M, Multi, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Semi-Public Sex, Threesome - M/M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-22 21:07:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13175217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: Standing in his darkened office during the Yard's drinks thing with his trousers open, Greg realises that John and Sherlock are a pair of *devils*.





	12 Days of Ficmas 2016: The Yard's Annual Christmas Party

Of course Greg adores them, his men, his head and heart and other parts unknown until the day he chose them, but given his current predicament—backed up against the metal file cabinet in his own damn office with one of their voices in each ear, one of their hands on his throat, one at his waist, and a mismatched pair helping themselves to what’s inside his open trousers’-front, all while the Met’s annual holiday drinks-thing burbles along in the big conference room not ten yards away through just one closed and one open door—he has only just realised that he has cast himself in with a pair of  _devils_.

“He thought I wouldn’t go along.” This from John, usually sensible, until  _this one_  gets into his head, gives him that look that makes Greg wish for a silver cross to hold him at bay, a bucket of Holy Water to throw at his zillion-quid suit jacket. “Showed  _him_. God, look at you. Lucky man.”

Greg grunts as near to annoyance as he can muster given that by this time there is sweat running down his back beneath his half-open shirt, the vest crumpled upward around his chest so they can torture him with pinches and licks and determined sucking, trading space back and forth, and all the while their hands below, curving and sliding, appraising, teasing. He is going to die half-naked in his office and Sherlock will tell the coppers it was his heart that gave out because it was rather ambitious that a man of a certain age take on the pair of them—day and night, in bed, in the bath, half-on and half-off the kitchen worktop, in the front hallway against the wall, once in a taxi but only a bit because  _honestly, the pair of you_ , week in, week out—but he’d lost half a stone and his mood had been downright cheerful recently, had it not? He’s in a better place now, and we showed him the way, didn’t we John?

Sherlock then, in his ear, damp hot breath and the smell of him is like an old stone church and makes Greg growl: “John won’t say because of this need you both have to out-top each other, but he wants you to bend him over.”

John, on his other side, oblivious to the affront to his manhood, licking into the hollow of Greg’s collarbone. Greg shudders and they both groan quiet approval, their hands bumping and shoving each other, greedy and just a bit competitive.

Sherlock goes on, nuzzling lips and nose and chin against Greg’s ear and cheek, ducking into the divot there behind his jaw that makes him think of sour-apple sweeties whenever one of them sticks in a tongue or fingertip. “He wants your fat cock up his arse, but he won’t say. Wants my fingers as well; we could work something out, don’t you think? _Mmm_. . .love the way your cock drips for us. Give us more, big man, why don’t you.”

A long-fingered slow drag and John’s more delicate hand replaces Sherlock’s, by now surging lower, to cradle and roll Greg’s balls between those cool fingers.

“He loves your big bollocks, you know.” John again, and Greg’s right hand is bunching up the back of John’s shirt, his left squeezing desperately at Sherlock’s bum, which rolls in and away, in and away, in a manner that would seem elegant were he not rutting like a dog against the top edge of Greg’s hip. John’s assessment of Sherlock’s preferences seems spot-on; Sherlock goes on cradling and shifting Greg’s sack even as he presses his tongue into Greg’s mouth, then bites at his jaw, the scratching sound of teeth on whisker-stubble like wet sandpaper.

Greg drops his head back a few inches and the file cabinet protests with a hollow metallic bang from parts distant. His eyes are mostly closed for fear of glimpsing a human silhouette through the horrid plastic vertical blinds that possibly do not entirely cover his office window, but just now he opens them in time to catch a glimpse of two dirty, self-congratulatory smiles meeting open-mouthed as his men kiss each other as praise for implementing a genius plan to pull off the perfect murder. For without question Greg is surely going to die of this. He closes his eyes so he will not see death’s approach; it will be wearing a long black coat and those awful white-soled shoes.

At last they decide to cooperate and ingeniously, their hands alternate, base to crown, back to the start, over and over, an endless tight tunnel of sensation and they fight to kiss him, both moaning at him to please, yes, that’s it, yeah, there you are, there you are, please Greg, yes,  _yeah_ , and when he comes it is so huge and so sudden it feels like a bloody  _emergency_ , his head clanging, gut clenching, hot and implosive like spontaneous combustion, and his knees wobble and they hold him, kissing, hands falling away to open their clothes, and they’re chasing him to the finish even as he pants himself to death against Sherlock’s shoulder, John biting his neck to stifle himself, and then they turn their attentions to Sherlock: his long bare throat and those pretty pink buds visible--pinchable--through his fine, translucent shirt, wanting him to join them where they are because  _Oh, holy night_ , the pair of you will honestly be the end of me.

Before their breath is caught, in the soft, homely space between the crisis and whatever comes next—sleep, showers, someone late for something and having to scramble—they laugh and laugh, Greg chucks one on the chin, then lightly slaps it, you’re mad. And you as well. Yes, me as well. God bless you, you evil, evil men, you’ve driven me mad.


End file.
